


Impietas

by taranoire



Series: Points of View [3]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Backstory, Canonical Character Death, Fog Warriors, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 18:02:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10313915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taranoire/pseuds/taranoire
Summary: In the fog of war, Fenris is abandoned by his master.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I took liberties with Lethendralis because the in-game canon sword is boring.

 

The sword is forged in Nevarran fire. The lyrium in the blade runs like blood, strengthening the metal to a diamond-hard folded steel. It is carried across mountain and stream and jungle to the Tevinter Imperium, a pretty offering from a magister to his beloved slave. Like him, it is deceptively delicate--beautiful, sharp, deadly.

The virgin steel is first quenched in Seheron. When the elf kills this first foe, it is deliberate and artful, and he does not stop to watch the body fall. Fenris is a perfect killer who never falters, who does not bow to cruelty or to the whims of war. His god is not death, but the magister who holds his leash.

An excellent little war, his master says, laughing, and leads him deeper into the jungle, fighting alongside him, mage and elf, flame and shield. They fight with a practiced synergy, the magister with his arcs of fire and the elf with his catastrophic Fade-touched bones. Danarius knows how to use his Fenris, how to sic him on prey and call him to heel.

Let it not be said that Tevinters practice war unfairly. The magister always sends a courier ahead to warn the rebels and the peasants that death is marching towards them. He offers ultimatums, the illusion of choices: betrayal--their countrymen or their lives. They are rewarded with shackles, chains, stifling carts headed by fierce drakolisks in the dusk.

Fenris knows, even then, that it is wrong. But blood and honor are his currency, and _lethendralis_ is his only friend.

*

Danarius prefers some remnant of high Tevinter society linger on in the camps. When night falls, he withdraws to a large private tent bearing the seal of the Imperium, attended by his slaves. He eats rich game and drinks fine wine, while the soldiers dine on scraps. He bathes with hot, fresh water while they nurse their wounds. Rose petals and fragrant oils and silks. 

At his request, his Fenris (untouched by any but muted eunuchs) provides him with every comfort. He obeys. He listens. He offers. In war, he is a nightmare, a maelstrom of death and light, but in service he embodies duty. He knows to anticipate desire, not wait for its command. 

Besides. When one is his master’s favored, one learns things. 

For example: the war in Seheron is neither excellent nor little. The drakolisks have begun to starve. Next will be the slaves, and then the soldiers. The encampment has been set aflame twice. Fog warriors have struck his allies without warning, cutting throats and spiriting off with captives. The magister will be forced east, far off target. 

“I may abandon the war,” Danarius says. “The senate will understand why I cannot fulfill my obligation.” 

“I promised that I would die for you,” Fenris says to his master, curled against him in the dark, listening to the muffled sounds of battle very far away. “And I will.”

Danarius kisses his head, but keeps his thoughts to himself. 

*

There is no room.

That is what the ship captain says. A magister may board, but the slave cannot.

“He is no mere slave,” Danarius spits, outraged at the treatment he is being afforded as a member of the Magisterium. His property is an extension of himself, and this brings dishonor to his noble house. “This elf is worth more than your life.” 

"Be that as it may, I offer my services as a courtesy. The jungle is burning. I leave within the hour. If you value your _lepus_ more than yourself, the price is the same either way.”

Danarius does not make a show of abandoning Fenris at the dock. But Fenris sees the fear in his eyes. The air smells thickly of smoke and the sky is red from flame. The magister presses a pouch of coin into his hand, and tells him to find passage to the mainland; to value his life more than his honor, and reunite with him at all cost. 

“ _Fasta vas._ I despise this place,” Danarius says. “But I will come for you, even if it takes me back here. I love you, my little wolf. I command you not to die.”

*

Fenris stumbles through jungle for three days with little in the way of food or water. He has never been abandoned, has never been masterless, and his sword is the only comfort he has--strong steel at his back. In the absence of command, of _stay_ or _eat_ or _kill,_ he imagines instead what his master might tell him to do.

“Find food,” he whispers to himself, struggling to decide how to make the command a reality. His meals have always been prepared for him by lower slaves. He does not even know whether the water in the jungle streams is safe to drink.

Everything here is an enemy. Everything in this blood-soaked darkness wants him dead. Knowing this, he avoids civilization, the telltale pinpricks of firelight and the noise of chatter, and keeps to the shadows. He eats berries and dead animals he finds on the ground.

On the third day, weak with hunger, he is attacked by Qunari from the trees. They throw spears at him and cry out in their harsh tongue. Wounded, he runs. He does not stop running until he stumbles, and collapses on the forest floor, his blood trickling onto the mossy groundcover.

Tears burn in his eyes. He has failed his master.

He will die here alone.

*

He wakes.

The tent is hot and dark, with only an ocher-colored light coming in through holes in the hide. He lies naked on a cot, his wounds closed and wrapped in moss and gauze. Lethendralis. Gone. This frightens him. Though, if he were truly a captive--truly doomed--he would be bound, and he is not. 

There is a long white wool tunic and a pair of ragged trousers on the end of the cot, presumably for him. He examines the clothing thoroughly. Slips it on, for lack of other choice. 

He goes outside. A hundred heads, a hundred pairs of eyes, turn to him--taking him in--and then go back to whatever they were doing before: cooking, talking, grinding down weapons, smoking, eating, laughing. Dark-skinned, strong-armed people wearing hand-stitched leather armor. He has only ever seen them from afar. Knowing who they are, and remembering what his master told him about them, makes him tremble.

He cannot possibly kill all of them. Not alone.

“Hello,” a voice says to his left, in the common tongue. Fenris startles, stepping back, the lyrium in his skin alighting of its own accord. The man who spoke holds up his hands in placation. He is in his twenties, perhaps, with long dreadlocks and a strong jaw. His eyes are kind. Fenris does not know whether to believe them.

“Sorry,” the man says. “Name is Kele. Do not speak common well.”

Fenris eyes him warily--particularly the sharp, numerous knives at his belt. He responds in polished higher Tevene. "For what purpose have I been taken captive, wilder?” 

Kele laughs. His Tevene is better than his common, though heavily accented with the native language of Seheron. “I apologize. I thought you were Dalish, when I first saw you, and since I don’t know elvhen--alas. It does not matter now. I have been asked to bring you to Dena.”

“Is he your chieftain, wilder?” Fenris asks. “Does he intend to enslave me?” 

Kele’s smile falters. “No,” he says. “She has no use for slaves.”

*

Dena is an old, old woman with untidy grey hair and a crow-like demeanor. Her quarters are warm with furs and incense, and she sips gingerly at a strong-smelling green tea. Her eyes are milk-blue with blindness.

“The elf, mother,” Kele says, sinking to his knees out of respect. Fenris is not certain whether she is actually his mother or if this is an honorary title. 

He tries to hide how hard he is shaking. How intimidated he is by these Seheron wildlings and their crow-mother. So far he has not been harmed, but perhaps that is only because they know he is no threat against their numbers. They are biding their time. They want to lull him before baring their teeth.

“Thank you, Kele,” Dena says. “Tell me, elf. What is your name?”

This is his only chance to secure his safety. “I am the property of House Tarquin, the slave of Danarius Privernas Aurelius, first of his name, Enchanter of the Minrathous Circle of Magi and Magister of the Imperial Senate,” Fenris recites. “He calls me Fenris. I am valuable. He would pay for me.”

“We are not interested in ransoming you,” Dena says.

Fear lances his spine, his nerves, white-hot in his fingertips. “The magister is powerful and wealthy beyond imagining. _Ego sum et concubinus,_ do you understand?”

“You will remain here, with us. You will do your part to earn your keep and our trust.”

He sinks to his knees, head bowed, trembling. His master has fed his nightmares with tales about what the fog warriors do to their captives. He can smell his own fear, as palpable as fresh blood.

“ _Domina,”_ he interrupts, swallowing back bile, “please do not let them rape me. Perhaps you are honorable. But if I am ruined, then I have dishonored him, I am _worthless_ , and when he returns for me he will kill me.”

Dena watches him, quiet.

Then she speaks to Kele. They exchange words in their own tongue, soft in tone and in volume. Kele nods, as if accepting some sort of request, and then stands. He bids Fenris to rise. 

“In light of your actions against us while in servitude, Dena does not yet trust you, and so I will guard you in the interim. But she does not wish for you to consider yourself a captive. She swears an oath that no harm will come to you among us.” 

Fenris considers this. “Oaths are sacred. And easily broken. If your kinsmen decide I should be punished?” 

Again, they speak only to each other. 

“If even a single man raises a hand to you, he will be dealt with,” Kele says. “Our laws apply to any who seek shelter under them.” 

“We have provided sanctuary to many refugees of the Imperium,” Dena says. “If you wish, speak to them. Perhaps they can convince you that there is nothing to fear.”

*

He stays with the unmarried men, women, and children in a hot and stifling longhouse. They do not ask prodding questions, but neither do they ignore him. They offer him soup and unleavened bread with warm smiles, and tell the children not to stare.

A few of them are elves. Branded with the sigils of Tevinter masters.

“I was rescued six years ago,” a woman beside him says. She does not look at him, as she speaks. “I was brought to Seheron as a farm-hand, and then my master’s fields were burned. At first, I was devastated. I mourned for my masters. But now I would never return.”

Fenris eats quietly. Averting his eyes.

“And you?” she asks.

“He left me,” Fenris says. “I watched his ship pull away.” 

He sets his half-eaten bowl of soup down on the ground, and then hides his face in his knees, wondering whether his master still seeks to retrieve him, or if he has already been replaced. He wants to cry. He does not know how to.

She gives him a look of pity. They leave him alone.

*

Despite their mistress’ promises, and the kindness he has been shown thus far, Fenris does not trust any of these wildlings. He remains in the longhouse for as many days as he is able, recuperating from his wounds and thinking miserably about whatever his master might be doing. 

He wonders where they have hidden his armor, his lethendralis. If he could only find them, he would run. He would destroy anyone who tried to stop him. He would cut Kele’s ever-watchful head from his shoulders, and gift it to his master. 

Kele comes to him, and asks if he would like to help prepare supper. Fenris reluctantly admits that he has never cooked before. He was a favored, higher slave, a bodyguard and a concubine, an object to be coveted or feared. Kele says that does not matter; that they will teach him.

“You can help prepare the meat,” a woman says, half-patient, demonstrating for him. Once she thinks he understands, she hands him the knife, handle-out. It occurs to Fenris that he could kill her. It would be easy. Foolish not to. 

He takes the knife and quietly begins to skin, as he was told. Wild game, blood pink down his brown arms. He listens as the wildlings murmur around him in a language he is frustrated not to know.

“The Tevinters ran with their tails between their legs,” one man says, a brief smattering of Tevene. He spits upon the ground. “Good riddance.”

“They will return,” Kele says. He is skinning several rabbits with quick, efficient expertise. “They always do. Gluttons for punishment, perhaps. The next time I see a magister I will flay him alive.”

Fenris bites his tongue.

“The magisters have done worse than flaying,” the man says. “I have seen them use demons to rape children. I have seen them burn infants alive in their cribs. They eat the dead and turn men into abominations by force.”

“Hush,” Kele says. “We are all well aware of what the magisters do to their prisoners.”

“And to their own,” Fenris says, without thinking. They look at him, shocked that he has a voice after all. Some mutter that they thought he had no tongue with which to speak.

*

Sometimes he dreams about Danarius. About his master. They are not terrible dreams, not nightmares, but he wakes weeping from them all the same. There is an ache in his heart that will not subside. Cold, numb, shaking. Like a flu. A half-death.

He misses Minrathous. Its warm, humid nights and the sounds of cicadas. His silk-covered bed, sheets scented with lavender, his hand-servants and his three hot meals and his oiled baths. He misses his thoroughbred, night-scaled drakolisk, with its feral eyes and perfect disposition. He misses the safety of high-walled gardens and dragonscale armor polished to silver sheen.

He misses serving. Pouring his master’s wine, sharing his master’s bed, because it was the only human contact he was allowed. It was never pleasant, but it _felt--_ something.

He misses killing for Danarius. He misses the look in his master’s eye when he ended a life for him. Pride. It was _pride_.

And now all of that is over. Gone.

He is here, captive to the barbarians, a world away, slapping the mosquitoes off of his skin, dirty and filthy, staring at the moon through the holes in the longhouse roof. Wondering whether his master misses him, craves him, needs him, as much as he does.

*

Fenris sits beside Kele and a group of other men as they trim and braid each other’s hair. They keep themselves exceptionally well-groomed, clean-shaven with long, dreaded locks in a variety of styles. They take pride in it, just as Danarius took pride in him.

Kele reaches out, and brushes Fenris’ hair with his fingertips, fascinated by its texture. “Would you like me to--”

Fenris’ eyes widen, and he slaps his hand away. “Do not touch my hair,” he warns. He gets to his feet and withdraws from the fire, crossing his arms across himself protectively, embarrassed by his reaction.

“I’m sorry, Fenris,” Kele says, behind him. “I will not touch you again. Please, forgive me.”

Fenris is quiet. He clenches his teeth. Then he nods.

As Kele turns away, Fenris explains: “From the moment I awoke, my master has never allowed me to cut it. It is intrinsically tied to my value. If it is damaged, if I am damaged, he will cast me aside when he comes to reclaim me.”

“Fenris, I would never allow him to take you.”

Tears spring unbidden to his eyes. “That is not for you to decide.”

*

Kele asks if he would like to learn how to make warpaint. “We’re running low,” he explains, “and without the paint, we are not quite as invisible as we would like to be in the fog.”

Well. Perhaps if he learns this trick, his master will not mind it took so very long to return to him? 

Fenris follows along, deep into the jungle. There is no identifiable path and yet they seem to know the trees as well as he knows Minrathous. He carries the paint bag without complaint, trailing behind the bulk of the group with Kele. This one, at least, he trusts.

“How old are you, Fenris?” Kele asks.

Fenris is not entirely certain. “When we came to Seheron, my master mentioned to a border watch that I am nineteen. More than that, I do not know. I cannot remember ever being younger than fifteen.”

“No memory of childhood, or family?”

“Nothing,” Fenris says. “I awoke, and he was there.”

They come to a small clearing and a waterfall. Near the edge of the stream, the fog warriors collect clay from the bank. Kele hands Fenris a bucket.

“You want as little silt as possible,” Kele says. “Gather as  much as you can carry. We must return to camp before nightfall. The jungle is dangerous enough, but this is a war zone.”

Fenris nods, and, with some hesitation, scrapes the clay up in his hands and into the wooden bucket. Disgusting. Beneath him, even. But after an hour or two, he forgets that he hates it, and feels some manner of pride when Kele praises him for his assistance.  

*

The women show him how to prepare the paint, baking it in the sun and crushing it to powder. Before a battle, they explain, the warriors will coat themselves in the white paint. In their man-made fog, they are nearly invisible. 

“And how does one make the fog?” Fenris asks. 

The woman--the farm slave--laughs at him. “It’s an alchemical reagent that’s deliciously simple but that the magisters have never been able to copy. And before you ask, no. I don’t trust you yet enough to show you.” 

Fenris nods. He’s disappointed, yet relieved that he will not have to tell his master their secret. He prays that this woman never gains his trust. He knows in his heart it would be misplaced. 

*

He is carrying a bundle of firewood to the camp when he sees Kele with another man. The shock of it makes him freeze, and there is not enough time to escape before Kele discovers the interruption. There is no punishment. In fact, Kele seems to find the predicament amusing.

“I do not understand,” Fenris says, later, when he and Kele are eating supper together. “I am unfamiliar with the concept. Men do not lie with men.”

Kele laughs. “Of course they do.”

“Why would you allow this?”

“Do men not lie together in Tevinter?”

“You are not a slave,” Fenris insists, frustrated. “And the situations are completely incomparable. A free man should never give himself to another. It is weakness. It is shame.” 

“I have not given myself to anyone.”

“So--he belongs to _you_? I see. That makes sense.”

“No,” Kele says patiently. “He is his own person, and I am mine. We chose each other of our own volition. What about you, Fenris? Do you prefer the company of women?”

Fenris does not understand the question. “I have no preferences. If my master wills it, I acquiesce. It is pointless to dwell on other possibilities.”

*

They go to the river to bathe together, segregating themselves by sex. Fenris says he will remain at the edge of the bank, not particularly comfortable with the vulnerability of nakedness. To his surprise, none of them press the issue, and he’s perfectly content to sit and watch them swim about and roughhouse, heavily toned from years of guerrilla warfare.

He rests his head on his knees, and can’t help but respond in kind when Kele smiles at him.

He thinks about what the man said before, about preferences, about...possibilities.

*

The fog wildlings are divided among numerous clans and castes. Late in the summer, they convene in a sacred location in the Seheron jungle. Some of the members of Dena’s clan want to keep Fenris bound and blindfolded, wary that he will send information back to Tevinter, but she and Kele convince them otherwise. They do not believe Fenris is a threat.

Fenris watches the proceedings from the periphery. The fog warriors are intensely democratic, and exhaust discussions on every issue, reaching consensus before deciding on solutions. He does not understand most of what they say, but Kele translates what he can: Tevinter is encroaching on Qunari military operations. To propose a temporary truce and alliance, identifying a common enemy, the Qunari are sending a representative to speak with the clan leaders.

“I would not trust any offer of alliance from an oxman,” Fenris mutters.

“They are not beasts,” Kele says.

“I have seen little to suggest otherwise.”

“Why?” he scolds. “Because in Minrathous, the magisters put them in steel cages and drive them mad? Because you have killed them and they fought back? I am no friend of the Qun or the Antaam but they are a power that commands respect, Fenris.”

The Qunari delegation arrives without much ceremony, but with plenty of militaristic posturing. The Kithshok who leads them is flanked by what seems to be a fully armed platoon. He sweeps his cold eyes across the delegates, and speaks a few words of Qunlat. The clan leaders respond in kind.

"They recognize the other’s position and have conveyed respect,” Kele says. “As a guest, and subject to our laws while in our spaces, the Kithshok will allow the clan leaders to propose their terms first.”

“And if he disagrees?”

“He will make that clear,” Kele says, solemnly.

*

He wakes to the familiar smell of burning flesh. 

He reaches for his lethendralis, a cry ready in his throat, a warning to his master to flee. But the sword is not there, and his master is many miles away.

He rushes outside the longhouse. The fog wildlings rush about, extinguishing burning huts and clashing weapons in the darkness. Fenris’ first thought is that the negotiations have gone sour, but the Qunari remain in the camp, helping to put out the fires and joining the warriors against faceless threats in the jungle. 

The air is thick with magic. It has always had an unpleasant smell--like ozone or sulfur. It burns in his markings and makes him want to claw the lyrium out of his skin. Mages. Half a dozen. They burn as they go. 

There are children screaming. Gaatlok explodes in the distance, a reverberating cacophony that lingers moments after.  

“Tevinters!” Kele says, and tries to yank him out of sight. “You must hide.”

“What do they want?” Fenris asks, thinking that if they only see him, they may stand down. It is a fool’s hope. A fool’s game. Even if they recognize him, they will attempt a capture, and slaughter the others. The wildlings are expendable to a Tevinter force. 

“Nothing we can provide them,” Kele says. 

But isn’t this what he wanted? To escape? To run from these barbarians, and reunite with his master? Not all Tevinters are allies of his master, in the muddied political field of Seheron, but they would seek ransom if nothing else. 

“Under what banner do they fight? Twin serpents?” 

“No,” Kele says. “A golden flower.” 

Fenris smiles, remembering a senator who overstepped his master’s hospitality one too many times. A wretch that now lives as a eunuch, but has kept his position. The puppet magister. “That is House Privernas. I have no qualms killing them.”  

He grits his teeth, tugging his arm away violently. He feels the mana like a heavy weight on his body, crushing him beneath it. To relieve the sensation he activates the markings, letting the magic flow through his body like blood, bright like moonlight.

Kele takes a step back.

“I can protect your people, but you will move aside.”

Kele obeys, mouth agape, and--weak from lack of practice--Fenris approaches the line of trees, phasing half-out of the corporeal world and watching it dance like dark water around him. Life appears, bright lights in a sea, and he holds his breath as black energy fills him.

Then he lets go.

*

Dena requests his presence.

In her tent, she kneels before an altar of wildflowers, pretty stones, and bottles of sweet oil or water. He respects her silence, as she is obviously in prayer. 

“I am communing with Senna--with my wife,” she explains, finally. 

Fenris does not know what to say, so he says nothing. 

“It was many years ago that they killed her. I no longer mourn; she dances now in the great beyond. But I seek her wisdom still.” 

Fenris examines the altar more closely. A circle of wooden beads rests upon a crude mirror. 

“May I ask who killed her?” 

Dena smiles, sadly. “A great magister of the Tevinter Imperium. He used his captive slaves as weapons against her; she was a great warrior, and a greater woman, but she was no match for the fear of the brutalized.” 

Fenris bows his head in shame. He knows better than anyone what it means to be a weapon of the masters. But it hurts him to think of those he has killed to protect himself, so he doesn’t think at all. Life for him has never been about choice. It is breathless, terrified stillness, and the hope that one day, death might release him honorably. 

“I wanted to hate them,” Dena says. “I tried to, for a very long time. But I could not. When I prayed to Senna, the answer was always the same, her whispers filling my ear. Forgive them, my heart said. For they did not kill me.” 

“I do not understand,” Fenris says. 

“I know.” 

“Then why are you telling me?” 

“We accept you as our own,” Dena says. “From the moment we found you, we took you in as our brother. You are safe here, Fenris, and you will always have a home among the fog warriors. No matter what happens, no matter how grave your sins in the past, do not forget that.”

*

One month later, he’s high in a tree, concealed head to toe in white paint and foliage. Silent, deadly, immobile. A knife in his teeth. Lethendralis, strong at his back. Precariously balanced over his prey. There’s a familiar, sharp whistle, followed by the sound of shattering glass. A cloud of white smoke.

Fenris drops, catching the Tevinter infantryman before he can scream. He slits his throat, and then moves to the next. Thick metal armor. He slips behind him in the confusion and snaps his neck. The scent of fire--a mage. Just as the fog begins to melt into the jungle he thrusts his hand through their chest, eyes glowing brighter than sunlight.

“Your orders?” he asks, in higher Tevene. His companions--two other fog warriors, and Kele--drop from the trees and slowly approach from behind, wary of interruptions, protecting Fenris while he is occupied.

“We were scouting,” the mage says, pale but unflinching, blood dribbling from his mouth. He seems more annoyed at having been caught, than anything. “Before you arrived, we sent a messenger to the port. You will never know which one.”

“I can be persuasive.”

“Today, I die a hero. You will die a traitorous whore.”

Fenris crushes his heart.

*

The jungle echoes with their laughter.

“And then what happened?” Kele asks, his game bag heavy with rabbit carcasses, moonlight bright on his hair. “Tell me, Fenris. What did the old magister do then?”

“Oh, it was _pathetic,”_ Fenris humors him with a smile. His bow clatters against his back. The path is well-worn beneath his bare feet. “He asked what price my master wanted in exchange for his life--keep in mind that he had tried to kill me thrice already--and I slowly crushed the air from his lungs, insisting that he needed to speak up.”

*

They sleep together beneath the stars, talking aimlessly about the happier moments in their lives. Between war and enslavement, neither has very many to talk about, but Fenris is content to let Kele speak. He enjoys listening to him. He feels safe in his company.

When he is about to fall asleep, Kele says his name.

“Fenris--I want to touch you. May I?”

Fenris opens his eyes to see Kele’s deep brown ones staring back at him. He thinks about this, and then nods, uncertain if saying no would really mean anything. Kele reaches out carefully, as if through the bars to a wolf cage. Fenris expects to be held down, to be used in the dark, to be fucked until he weeps.

But none of that happens.

Instead Kele takes his hand, entwines their fingers together, and closes his eyes.

Fenris is reminded of something he cannot remember. 

*

The jungle is silent. 

He tries to get out of his cot, when a hand presses over his mouth. He gasps, eyes wide, tries to scream as the lyrium in his skin flares alive to protect him. It’s Kele. Finger over his own lips, a desperate plea in his eyes to keep silent. The man whispers in his ear.

“The magister is about to strike,” he says. “I can hide you, but you must stay quiet.”

He had imagined many ways he might respond to his master finally coming for him. Joy, mostly, as he ran to him, as he knelt at his feet. Not this suffocating terror. Not the rush of blood in his ears, or the sparks of adrenaline in his fingertips. Not the instinct to run.

Kele guides him into the darkness of jungle, hand tight around his, as if terrified of losing him.

“I will not let him take you,” he says, low and dark, “I swear that to you.”

“Your people cannot fight him,” Fenris pleads. “He will kill them all to find me. Please, you must turn me over to him--”

A loud explosion rocks the earth, the sound emanating from the fog warrior encampment. The two turn towards it, panicked and helpless. 

Kele does not loosen his hold. Fenris grits his teeth and then unleashes the lyrium, dark energy snapping like a rattlesnake. Kele is blasted back, tumbling unconscious to the ground.

“I am sorry,” Fenris says, and leaves him there.

Mage fire. Screams. A demon’s screech.

It is as Kele said. There are at least two dozen imperial templars wearing the colors of House Tarquin, as well as a handful of battle mages. They attack indiscriminately--men, women, children--and burn as they go. When they see Fenris, they shout at each other in Tevene, and retreat towards the center of the compound.

He walks as if to his death. 

In the center of the village, Danarius directs the chaos from his drakolisk, surrounded on all sides by armored guardsmen for protection. When he sees Fenris, he freezes, and then holds up a hand, signalling his men to cease altercations.  

Fenris clenches his fists. “ _Dominus,_ I submit to your will. Please do not harm those who have done nothing to you.” He gets to his knees, hoping against hope that this will appease him. 

Danarius descends from his mount and advances on him, staff in hand. Force magic emanates from him, presses Fenris further to the ground, nearly crushing him. 

“My sweet little Fenris. Did they harm you? Have they touched you? Do not lie to me, _lepus.”_

“No, _dominus._ They have treated me well.” 

Danarius offers his ring. Fenris kisses it, but before he can draw away, Danarius takes his chin in his fingers. “Did it never occur to you, pet, to find me? Do you have any idea how long I have searched for you? And when I arrive, and find you at great effort and cost to me, you show no joy--no elation. No love.” 

Fenris bows his head. 

“You disappoint me.” 

“Forgive me, _dominus,”_ Fenris tries to explain. “They would not allow me to leave. I was frightened and--” 

Danarius backhands him. “Then you should well have massacred them, whore!” 

Fenris hears weapons withdrawn from their sheaths. The creak of bows. He looks up, and is stunned to see the fog warriors--bleeding, hobbled, but still standing strong--with their weapons trained upon his  master. Even those brave warriors incapacitated by his master’s men, restrained by their hair or their limbs, defy him with their gaze. 

No, Fenris thinks. No. 

“Step away from him, magister,” Dena growls, her bow drawn almost to breaking. Senna’s beads around her neck. Fire burns in her old, blinded eyes. “And leave this place forever. He is ours. And we will die defending ours.” 

At first Danarius’ face is expressionless. Hope flickers like a candle in the dark, an emotion Fenris has never allowed himself to feel before. Danarius is outnumbered. He may yet let him go in the face of certain death. Fenris waits, breathless from the thought that--now, at long last--his master will release him from blood debt.  

“I should have known my sweet little Fenris would win the hearts of these barbarians,” he scoffs. “You didn’t mean to make them love you; of course not. It’s just what you are, Fenris. A pretty poisonous flower they cannot help plucking. I trained you to seduce, to make soft eyes at your enemy, and then tear their throats out.” 

“Do not listen to him, Fenris,” Kele says, limping out from the shadows. His eye is blackened and his sword arm is broken. “He is corruption. He stole your childhood from you and broke you until you could not recognize yourself!” 

Danarius grins at the uncertainty coiling in him. “They intend to kill me, little Fenris. Would you allow them to harm me? Would you allow them to hurt your _pater_?” 

“No,” Fenris says, tonelessly. “I do not wish to see you harmed.” 

“Then protect me, Fenris. Kill them all, and I will forgive you your transgressions, and take you home to Minrathous. You will wear silk and feel blue blood on your knife again, and find succor in my love for you. This is all just a bad dream. A dream that you can end.” 

These people mean nothing to him. 

He masqueraded as one of them for a while, enjoyed the illusion of love and freedom. But this is not who he is. He is Fenris, beloved and deadly, the white wolf of House Tarquin, the lyrium ghost. He does not belong here. He should have killed them when he first awoke in that longhouse. 

“This is why I created you,” Danarius intimates, pride in his eyes as the lyrium in his skin flickers to life. “You are my tempest. My little halla. _Perdamus illos_.” 

The prey becomes predator. He gets to his feet. He turns on them. Takes advantage of their hesitance to kill, tearing through their sinewy bodies, blood through his fingers, flesh ripping. By the time they know he is gone it is too late. The lyirum pulses and explodes outward, lashing them with raw, dark energy. It flays the flesh from their bones and they scream as their guts writhe out of their bodies. 

They panic. Arrows whistle past his shoulders, but he is too fast for them. He becomes death, beautiful and terrible, and he knows this is as it should be. 

The children flee, screaming into the trees. He pretends not to see them. He pretends they are too small and insignificant to chase down.  

When the last has fallen, he lingers among the corpses, checking for survivors, nudging aside heads and broken limbs and searching for signs of life. He hears a wet gasp of pain. His name shaky on the breath of a dying man. He descends on Kele, his eyes dark, betraying none of the turmoil inside. 

“Fenris,” Kele says again, sadly, softly, blood around the word. “I know...you’re there. I know...you are compelled...b-by this foul magic...” 

Fenris crouches. He watches him die. Do it, already, he thinks. Do it, so that I can forget you. 

“I...forgive you,” Kele says. “If you can hear me...I....forgive--” 

The lyrium flares. Fenris reaches inside his chest. He forces himself to see the fear and understanding in the eyes of the man who was fool enough to love him. 

“There is no compulsion,” he says, hand around his heart. “Danarius trained me well.” 

He clenches his fist. He feels nothing. 

He looks down at their bodies. The broken vessels that opened their hospitality to him, nursed his wounds, fed him, and tried to understand him. The blood. There is so much blood. The scent, overpowering. Steaming intestines. Flies, dancing across flesh. 

Dena’s open eyes judge him from where she lies, twisted in the mud. Senna’s wooden beads scattered across the ground. 

He runs. Runs from the sight of disemboweled corpses, runs from the rot that has already begun. Runs from his master’s frantic screams, the beating of drakolisk hooves as they carelessly trample the corpses. 

“Find him!” Danarius cries out. Men shout in affirmation. “Bring him to me, unharmed and unspoiled! Fenris! To me! Fenris!” 

*

He runs until he cannot run. 

He vomits. Sobs. Curls his fingers into the earth and screams. The scent of their blood curdling in his throat. Beats his head against a tree. Puts his knife to his throat, and then takes it away again. Kele, telling him he forgives him. Dena, watching him even in death. Her lover’s beads strewn about the muck like drops of rain. Danarius. Danarius, smiling, watching him kill.  

He washes the blood from his form in the river. Thinks about drowning himself. Thinks of the Maker. Thinks of Kele--Kele, who could have hurt him, but who didn’t. He takes lethendralis and cuts his hair from his head. He watches it float downstream, the heaviness, the purity, all of it--gone, forgotten. 

Then he sobs again. Great, shuddering cries until he cannot breathe. 

He hides in the core of a dead tree. He sleeps. For hours. For days. He does not know. Ghosts whistling, or the wind. His flesh is burning. He wears the mantle of the slave, has the sword of a slave, but he is not a slave.

The slave is dead. 


End file.
